The 65 Histories
by Hotaru-Musoka
Summary: Everything has a past, and the tools of Drakengard are no exception. This is an indepth look at what happeened before Caim came across these weapons. Disclaimer: Would I really be writing short stories about Drakengard if I owned it? Not a chance.
1. The 65 Histories: Introduction

**If you're reading this, **then I finally got off my arse and did some writing. Now you can enjoy the pride that I am going to call the 65 histories. These are the stories of the Drakengard weapons, because, after all, they did have histories before Caim used them in his epic struggle against the empire and the Watchers.

I will admit that these stories are loosely based on brief histories given by the Bradygames guide for Drakengard, but there were many parts that weren't definitive, and I got to figure out what the heck to fill the space with. So, at the end of each history, I'll give the verbatim paragraph from the guide so that it will be clear what I did and did not create.

The first section, Hymir's Finger, is one large block, but I may have to divide them into smaller parts for more frequent updates.

Well, that's just about it. I look forward to seeing any signs that someone might've (maybe, sort of, a little) read my work. I'm open to suggestions, and you're best bet to reach me is e-mailing me at Enjoy!


	2. Hymir's Finger

**Hymir's Finger**

**Part 1 of 1**

Lord Vahk sat on his throne, watching his bodyguards at their posts as if they were some sort of prey. He was edgy, waiting for a message on their current battle, the bearer of which come through the doors of his audience chamber at that moment.

"Your Lordship," respectfully began the messenger, bending low to the ground. "Our forces have been victorious in the skirmish between the subhumans on the eastern border. We await your command." Despite the messenger's calm report, it couldn't hide the sweat beading on his tanned brow, or the horrors of the battlefield in his hazel eyes.

"Press forward, leave none of them alive. They will not know defeat until we show it to them." Vahk ordered ruthlessly. He could imagine the screams of his prey. It would have been hard for anyone to have missed the bloodlust in his voice.

"Yes, my lord," The messenger bowed again, gold-brown tufts waving a moment before he left, an audible clank of his sword hilt and chain mail matching the rhythm of his jogging strides.

The moment the door shut behind the boy, Vahk stood up, and made his way to the back doorway of the room. He stopped abruptly before the door, and commanded, "Krit!"

"Yes, lord!" A lanky, chestnut-haired member of his guard stepped forward and saluted.

"Ready my gear and horse for the morning. I will be visiting the eastern border for a progress check." ordered Vahk, not once faltering in his tone.

"Yes, my lord!" with that, Krit broke rank and made his way out of the front door, followed by two trainee bodyguards.

Commands issued, Vahk continued out the back exit and to his quarters.

Although Vahk may have seemed like a bloodthirsty brute, he was quite literate. Books may have been scarce in his small western Lordship, but it didn't stop him from recording the days' events on whatever piece of paper was available. He also used it as a weapon to blind his opponents with rage, mocking their illiteracy, calling them incompetent. It had given him an upper hand in many a battle. His records were also useful for later reference, and as Vahk imagined they would also be reference material to the future warlords of his small country.

Vahk may have been prideful of his literacy, but the size of his country was a sore point. Even though the military was successful, he had hardly any skill at dictating a large population. After conquering a country, the people would usually revolt, and when they did, they easily chased Vahk's forces out by sheer numbers. This meant that no matter how long Vahk kept conquering, his dwarfish country of Myzrad would always remain small.

Sitting down at the plain, dark mahogany desk, Vahk unrolled a piece of parchment and scrawled out his success over the subhumans onto the paper, but it would be almost impossible to read due to the vast number of grammar and spelling mistakes.

A few minutes later, he crawled over to his bedside, changed into his drab nightclothes and shut his eyes.

Blood rained throughout his dream. He was in the middle of a field, drenched in the blood of subhumans. He turned to see the surviving creatures fleeing into a canyon, their probable origins. He ran to follow. Upon entering the canyon, his back throbbed the dull pain of a dream, and he fell forward, pushing back the tip of an arrow protruding from his chest.

Vahk sat upright in his bed, the nightmare of his dream still vivid in his mind. He thought aloud, "Is that the end, or is it the sorcery of a mage trying to set me off balance?" Before he could think it through more, a pair of his guards and the messenger from the day before asked permission to enter.

"Sorry to disturb your rest, lordship, but we have and urgent report on the eastern border skirmish." Reported Krit, the trainee accompanying him slowly nodding as if to confirm their reason for intrusion on the lord's quarters.

The messenger spoke up, "The subhumans are retreating to the canyons in the northeast. Your orders?"

"Pursue them. I told you not to leave survivors, correct?" Sometimes Vahk rued how fast messengers could cross the distance between castle and battle field.

"Yes, lord." The messenger left, leaving to two bodyguards in the doorway.

Krit broke the silence with, "Your gear and steed are ready, lord. We can leave as soon as you wish."

"Very well, have breakfast prepared and we can set off after the meal.

With a bow, the two bodyguards left towards the kitchens. Vahk climbed off of the mattress, took a moment by the mirror to shave his face and straighten his short brown hair, and put on his tunic, breeches, and carried his dark leather riding jacket with him to the galley.

Being a small nation, it was enough for even the lord of the country to eat his meals in the kitchens with his guards to eat, although not quite as equals, which should be expected. Vahk used to try to talk with the guards about their families, but the just wouldn't drop the "Yes sir, no sir, how high sir?" attitude, so he gave up on that and ate with them in silence.

After their meagre meal was done, the guards picked up the plates and carried them to the sink, and accompanied Vahk to the main hall.

Vahk took the lead to the stables, eager to reach the battle despite his prophetic nature. As he was walking he donned his leather riding jacket, and put on a pair of matching riding gloves that were in the pocket.

He double-checked that all his equipment was in the saddlebags; chain-mail, sword, bow and arrows, it all seemed to be there.

"Aright, shall we go?" Vahk said in an unusually friendly tone for a pre-battle order.

His guards nodded, and the three of them set off in the same direction as the messenger took not even an hour before.

Other than a small farming settlement, Vahk passed on his way to the border, the entirety of the trip was an endless run through plains with the scarce patches of grass here and there.

In the distance, Vahk caught sight of his forces. Cavalry and infantry seemed to be proceeding, but his archers were firing from their present locations. He spurred his horse forward and headed for the archery squadron's commander.

"Move forward as needed, ensure that the other units are covered." issued Vahk shortly. He began laying his chain mail over his riding clothes, and strapped the bow and quiver to his back, sword on his hip. "I'll be in there, too. Let's show them that Myzrad isn't a force to be underestimated!" With that brief speech, his guards rallied and caught up closer to the rest with Vahk spearheading the group towards the bloodbath.

As Vahk came closer to the canyon opening, he faltered, he experiencing Déjà vu from his dream. "So this is how it'll end…" he thought, unaware of what was about to happen. He charged forward anyhow, and a split second later, he heard a small thud. Behind him, the shaft of an arrow was stuck in the ground, angled towards the edge of the canyon-cliffs. This one didn't look like to ones used by the subhuman archers, though. Its shaft was made of a better quality wood, affordable only by a more successful army. Then he recognised the insignia on it, near its tip, the empire's mark. He looked to the front lines to see his infantry being attacked by Imperial soldiers.

"Fall back, draw them out! he ordered urgently. There wasn't a single soldier that he could afford lost.

They retreated into the open. It was obvious that the empire didn't expect much of them, for there wasn't a single commander among the lot of the. They were expecting Myzrad to fall to sheer brute force.

Once out of the empire archers' range they turned around to slaughter their foes, their archer joining in and shooting their adversaries at point-blank range. It wasn't long before all but three of the empire soldiers kneeled on the blood-moistened ground at Vahk's feet. Their tears fell freely from their eyes as they begged for mercy.

"Please, spare us. As long as we can live, we will be content. We can be soldier, slaves or servants, bound in chains or free, but please let us live." The most senior of them sobbed. It seemed too practiced to Vahk.

"Well…"Vahk muttered. Are the honest, or will the turn on me the moment they get the chance? "I'll take your heads, but your eternal souls are yours to keep.

They were dumbfounded. Even their decapitated heads showed that expression as they were buried in unmarked graves on the battlefield.

Vahk's army, being one matching the country's stature, needed to take all that they could. If that meant using the armour of their fallen enemies, then so be it. After scavenging what they could, the scouts and younger officers carted the unusable armour into the castle lobby.

"Highness, what do you request should be done with this scrap iron? There is plenty of supply for all, so this extra is at your disposal." reported a small female officer. It mattered not the gender of those who wished to serve in this country.

Vahk pondered the situation, but soon devised a new scare tactic for his forces. "Forge it into a sword for me. Spare no expense to find the best Myzradian smithy to forge it, and do not bother being discreet." Vahk commanded in a ceremonial, yet somewhat barbaric tone.

"Aye, sire." With a bow, she left, taking a relaxed after-battle stride.

Relaxing too, Vahk plopped down in his chair and planned his next conquest.

Little more than a fortnight afterwards, the sword arrived, swathed in silk, in the audience chamber. Vahk adored the sheer size of it, sure that it would strike down his enemies with edge and reputation.

He stepped down from his seat and strode toward the massive blade. Underneath the silk was a dark iron blade, the sheer size of it enough to make foes flee before the blade was even splashed with red. He raised his hand and brushed away the rest of the silk, amazed that only a shaped wooden block was holding it up vertically.

"I name this sword for my grandfather, Hymir's Finger, for I believe this is his hand reaching down form the heavens to aid his country in their struggle against the empire." Vahk declared, with his hand clasped tightly around the hilt.

He tightened the muscles in his arm, and…could not lift it. Rather than embarrass himself further, he asked his staff, "How was this carted here?"

Krit responded, "Lord it was carried in on a two-horse cart, and a group of five smiths carried it to the chamber."

"No mortal man should have the strength to wield this blade. Do with it what you wish, but dare not dispose of it." The blade still meant something to him, even if it wasn't useful, Vahk thought as he trudged to his chamber to contemplate a new scare tactic.

Many a week later, Vahk sat in his audience chamber, plotting an advance into the south-western neighbour country. His usual messenger barged in the doors.

"Lord!" He hurriedly bowed, and continued on with the message. "The imperial forces have appeared out of the west, they have us in a corner."

"Alrigh…" Vahk's eagerness was shattered by a sickening crack. He looked upwards to see, to his dismay, Hymir's Finger, hung on the crimp in the ceiling, directly above where he was standing. With a gruesome crunch, the sword came down on him, sending a shower of tears around the room. Vahk didn't even feel the water on his face before his body was rent in two.

Here's the original paragraph this is based on, so you know what's mine and what isn't.

This is the largest sword in the world, too heavy for any mortal to lift. It is believed that until now, no warrior has been able to wield it. It was ordered forged by the warlord Vahk the Pitiless. Made from the melted armour of his vanquished enemies, the sword announced Vahk's might and grandeur to the world.

Next: I don't know yet, so I'm open to suggestions. (Deathdance, maybe?)

Yeah, it's done! Woo hoo! I'm gonna sleep now, and then WRITE SOME MORE! XD


	3. Balberith's Tears

**Balberith's Tears**

The rain, the shelter, and the frightening, plaguing illness sweeping over Teyn's home

village. That's all that Teyn could think of, while she was attempting to mind her family's

chicken coop. She constantly mumbled to herself while she worked, and now her

flustered fury was being fulfilled on the unsuspecting chickens.

"Why won't the empire come to our aid?" she spat, "We're on their land, yet they

do nothing to help us!"

A chicken looked at her, wondering when it would finally get some seed, or if the

girl would stand there mumbling all day. She saw it, and drew its eyes away with the

food; she didn't want anyone to see her so angry, even if it was just an animal.

"We should go to the Union; they're fighting against the empire; their goddess

might be able to help us. Yes, we should. We should. We _should. We should!!!!_" She

shouted with all of her pent-up fury.

Her mother then leaned out of the doorway, curious about why her child was

yelling at the chickens. "Teyn, you'd better stop that, the neighbors would have a good

mind to think you're insane, and we couldn't very well blame that on this cursed plague.

Get in here, I think the chickens wouldn't mind trading a little of their seed for some silence."

Almost magically, Teyn obeyed. Amazingly, no matter how frustrated Teyn was, she would always follow her mother's orders. It probably had something to do with the similar sarcastic and humoring tone they both shared and identified with.

Inside her dark little home, Teyn was the only child. Her mother worked hard running the house, and was infamous as the spunkiest woman in the village. Meanwhile, her father was out of work at the moment, because no merchant had come to the village that spring with any goods, including the vital crop seeds and farming equipment for the year. And, because no-one had any carts or mules, there was no reliable way to gather supplies from other nearby villages. That left hunting in the mountains to the east, and scavenging what they could.

Surprisingly enough, Teyn was also a much better chef than her mother and father

combined, and she just flourished with the new and unusual ingredients that had just been

sitting on her doorstep until recently. She made sweet, rich juices with different combinations of wild berries, and succulent roast of wild deer that put any of her past dishes to shame. She also kept a mental archive of meals and snacks that could make people feel better on a bad day, because her sarcasm wasn't a very good tool for accomplishing that.

She delved into the preparation of a meal fit for a king, in an attempt to cheer her

father up once he came home from scrounging up supplies over the last few days.

The sun was beginning to set, and Teyn's father wasn't home yet. _I hope he didn't _

_run into trouble on the road._ She thought,_ knowing our luck though…_

To pass time while she waited for the meat to cook, Teyn thought over her idea of

the village seeking help from the Union. _They hate the Empire enough to start a war, and we're out of luck with the Empire as well. We may not be much, but I don't suppose the Union would at all be picky about who they get to fight with them against the Empire and the Watchers. Then again, we're probably too far east to really use, and even if the entire village rebelled, we'd be like twigs in the sea, seeing as there're so few of us. Not even mentioning that the surrounding villages between here and the Union territory probably won't bother to flip sides. Hmm… _she went on like this for a good hour, and the sun was just a sliver of light on the dark horizon when she noticed a couple of people carrying someone to her home.

"Papa?..." she precariously murmured, though at that voice level, even the

chickens in the coop couldn't hear her, let alone the traveling group.

"Mother, come outside, something might be wrong with papa." But she didn't wait

for her mother to get outside. When her mother's foot was finally outside of the door,

Teyn was already halfway to the troup.

"Papa, are you okay??" She grabbed a hold of his hand, he seemed to be

unconscious. With no ideas coming to her dazed mind, Teyn looked up pleadingly at the

men that were slowly carrying her father back to the hut.

"He broke into fever this morning while we were packing up camp. It would seem

that we can't escape the illness, even outside of the village." he told her stoically.

Tears flowed from her eyes, and she did what she could to help get her father into

the house.

Teyn and her mother eased her father into the old bed that sighed as much now as

ever when any weight was put on it. Teyn couldn't see anyone, much less her father, like

this, so she swiftly left the now dark and dusty house for the outdoors and her chicken-

coop sanctuary.

"What can I do?" she groaned to her favorite rooster, Ehren. After a few moments

with naught but the soft clucks of the hens settling in to sleep, she said, "I'll go see the

priest, maybe he can tell me something."

Soft moonlight filtered in to the skylight at the small village shrine, and Priest

Mumyn was sleeping behind the altar with a book on his face and a bottle in his hands.

"Mumyn?" she asked tentatively, referring to him more as one of her friends,

which he was.

The corpse-like body of Mumyn sat up with a grunt, and quickly returned to its

normal liveliness. "What? No witty comments? I thought I had come up with a good one

this time…"

Teyn continued, unfazed by the priest's usual unorthodox antics. "I need some

advice, Mumyn. Papa has caught the illness; do you no anything I can do to help him?"

Mumyn sighed as he stood up, "You don't even need to say it Teyn. We've known each other for as long as we can remember, right? I know you're going to pursue this no matter what you have to do. You might not know it, but I can tell exactly what you're thinking." He shifted his feet in the dirt floor, "Come 'ere. I know of something, but if anyone asks, I never told this to you. It'd look bad of someone my age, let alone a priest, told this to you."

They strode into the back room of the church that served as Mumyn's quarters.

Clearing away a little dust, Mumyn took a leather-bound book out from a false bottom in

his traveling trunk. Once again, Teyn knew about this side of Mumyn, so she only felt the

hope that her father might live through this epidemic.

"Presto! We have a possibility!" he exclaimed, trying to break the mood, and opened the book, and on the first page was scribed "Demons and Hell's Gates" Teyn then understood Mumyn's earlier statement.

"Now this is just a suggestion, but…"

To Teyn, the short distance between the shrine and her hut seemed like miles in

the nighttime darkness, but now at least she knew what to do. Mumyn had told her that she could offer her soul at the gates of Hell, and in return for her soul her father would be cured and could keep on living. She was steadfast in her resolve to do this, and hoped she could properly perform the ritual to get to the gates. From there though, Mumyn couldn't tell her exactly what would happen. But he did say, "I wish you luck, my childhood friend." before she left the shrine.

Almost exactly when Teyn finished going through the events of the day in her mind,

she was just outside the hut. Circling around into the back of the chicken coop, she

wasted no time in beginning the ritual. It called for a short recitation, as well as the

burning of a lock of her own hair, and the making of a small stone altar. Gathering a few

pebbles, she laid them out in the demanded pentagram, with a stack of stones in

descending size placed in the middle of the pentagram. Then she pulled out some of the

shorter hairs from her bangs, and used a spare pair of rocks from what she had found in

the chicken coop to produce enough sparks to light it. Before placing the hairs on the

altar, she thought, _As soon as I place this on the altar and recite that chant, I won't see my family again. Should I sit with them for a few minutes as my goodbye? _She pondered how long the flames would last, and finally decided, _No, I don't have the time, he may be dying as I'm thinking this. _And she hurriedly positioned the strands, reciting the phrase with even more haste.

It was as her soul was fading from her body that she thought, _This is also the last _

_time I will fall into the dirt._

Drifting for what seemed like hours, Teyn wondered whether or not she could

actually save her father, or if she had just landed her own spot in Purgatory. That thought

slipped from her mind rather fast, when she drifted towards a large pair of white as bone

gates. As she got closer, though, she heard them screech open and drip a dark red liquid

out into the abyss. _Blood, _she thought, _and plenty of it. _

As she got even closer, she began to see the gatekeeper, and the more detail

became apparent, the more her heart froze. She observed as long as she could, but she

couldn't have stalled because she wasn't in control of her movement in this void, and her

pride wouldn't allow her to turn back now. She turned to face the demons she was about

to barter with.

"Ah, here's something interesting, Balberith. Someone to make a deal, someone

who's _alive."_ said one of demons standing behind the gate seeking, some entertainment.

Teyn wasted no time getting to the point of her voyage. "There is no one here by

the name of…" she hesitated, reminding herself that there was probably someone in this

realm already with the same name as her father. Looking back up into the eyes of the

demons, she almost bellowed, "My father isn't here, is he?!"

Balberith was used to seeing many a soul pass through the gates he guarded, but

this girl seemed different, which wasn't too surprising, seeing as she was alive. Most of

the people who searched for the gates while still alive just wanted demonic power, which

sometimes they retrieved, and other times they were just tossed into hell with the rest.

But this girl was even different from them. An aura hung around her like a thin veil of

green light, protecting her from the evils of the mortal world and the underworld. He

couldn't tell what it was, but it was like that aura was drawing him in, making him want

to protect her. He prepared to hear what it was that she was asking.

Teyn's heart was a squirrel in her chest, and she felt like she was about to die. She

feared it, of course, but it was what she wanted, so she could save her father. "My father,

he is deathly ill, I want to trade my life for his. I want to take his place." The words

flew from her mouth for fear that she may already be too late.

She watched the astonished faces of both the gate keepers, especially the one on

the right, who seemed less fazed by her request. "Will you grant that or not? I'm sure you

demons can know who I'm referring to…" and she watched as the left demon raised his

spear in acknowledgement of what she was asking.

Then she heard the rough voice of the right demon, "Wait, Melchior." And he

stared at Teyn for a moment. She heard him inaudibly mumble something, and the silent

Melchior nodded his approval to whatever Balberith had said.

Teyn waited anxiously for the judgment of the demons Balberith and Melchior

before her.

Balberith grabbed Melchior's shoulder and pulled him back from the girl slightly.

"Melchior, wait." He commanded, then mumbled, "You can tell this one's not here for

power, right? She doesn't deserve this." And to that, Melchior nodded.

"I'll take her place, Melchior." He said, "We chose purgatory instead of hell, right?

Look at how this monstrous place has changed us. I've had enough of being a middle-

man; I'll take my punishment now, as well as that of her father." Balberith felt Mechior's

shoulder muscles tighten under his grip, but didn't relent. Finally, Melchior gave his

grim, silent nod again, and raised his spear to execute the punishment onto Balberith.

Teyn was horrified, when she saw the demon called Melchior raise his spear and

impale Balberith through the center of his chest. Watching the face of Balberith though,

she could tell that he had chose for this to happen, and she couldn't help but wonder why

a demon she had only seen for a few moment sacrificed the little bit of existence he had

for her. She slowed her thinking and prepared to speak when the demon Melchior turned

to face her.

For the first time in a long time it would seem, Melchior spoke, "Balberith has

taken your punishment, you can now leave. There is no business for you here." and turned

away. It was unusual, because Melchior's voice was most definitely human, despite his

grotesque demonic appearance, and probably was not long ago, but Teyn didn't want to

question it. She willed herself back to her lifeless body in the mortal world.

She was face down in the dirt but alive, better than she was expecting to be. She

wiped off a little grime from her forehead, and went inside to see if it was all just a

frenzied dream. It wasn't, her father was sitting up in the dilapidated bed, with astonished

faces all around him.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, tears of joy flooding her face. "You're alive!!" She reached

down to hug him.

"That goodness, Teyn, I worried I would never see your face again." He smiled up

at her when she had let go of him. "Though this bed seems even more uncomfortable than

it used to be…" and he reached underneath the bed, like the source of his discomfort under there.

It was there indeed, the spear that Melchior has pushed through Balberith's chest,

although it was clean of any blood. Despite her confused family and villagers around her,

Teyn recognized the spear, but she was soon as shocked as the rest of the people when her father said, "It's wet…" but the floor was as dry as the rest of the ground in the village.

Yay, Another one up! Jus' so you know, I'll try to update as often as I can, but a lot of crazy crap has been going on, so that might be in pretty large spaces. (I think it was six months for this one. )

Anywho, I kinda can't get at my resources right now, but I'd like to let you know that almost everything but the method and character development was given, disease, demons, evil and all. Jus' so ya know. (A cookie for you if you guess where the name "Teyn" comes from.)


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